University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

We have in the last three chapters brought up the history
of our characters to the time when our story opens, when
Mara and Sally Kittridge were discussing the expected return
of Moses.

Sally was persuaded by Mara to stay and spend the night
with her, and did so without much fear of what her mother
would say when she returned; for though Mrs. Kittridge
still made bustling demonstrations of authority, it was quite
evident to every one that the handsome grown-up girl had
got the sceptre into her own hands, and was reigning in the
full confidence of being, in one way or another, able to bring
her mother into all her views.

So Sally stayed — to have one of those long night-talks in
which girls delight, in the course of which all sorts of intimacies
and confidences, that shun the daylight, open like the
night-blooming cereus in strange successions.

One often wonders by daylight at the things one says
very naturally in the dark.

So the two girls talked about Moses, and Sally dilated
upon his handsome, manly air the one Sunday that he had
appeared in Harpswell meeting-house.

“He did n't know me at all, if you 'll believe it,” said
Sally. “I was standing with father when he came out, and
he shook hands with him, and looked at me as if I 'd been
an entire stranger.”

“I 'm not in the least surprised,” said Mara; “you 're
grown so and altered.”

“Well, now, you 'd hardly know him, Mara,” said Sally.
“He is a man — a real man; everything about him is different;
he holds up his head in such a proud way. Well,
he always did that when he was a boy; but when he speaks,
he has such a deep voice! How boys do alter in a year or
two!”

“Do you think I have altered much, Sally?” said Mara;
“at least, do you think he would think so?”

“Why, Mara, you and I have been together so much, I
can't tell. We don't notice what goes on before us every
day. I really should like to see what Moses Pennel will
think when he sees you. At any rate, he can't order you
about with such a grand air as he used to when you were
younger.”

“I think sometimes he has quite forgotten about me,” said
Mara.

“Well, if I were you, I should put him in mind of myself
by one or two little ways,” said Sally. “I 'd plague
him and tease him. I 'd lead him such a life that he could
n't forget me, — that 's what I would.”

“I don't doubt you would, Sally; and he might like you
all the better for it. But you know that sort of thing is n't
my way. People must act in character.”

“Do you know, Mara,” said Sally, “I always thought
Moses was hateful in his treatment of you? Now I 'd no
more marry that fellow than I 'd walk into the fire; but it
would be a just punishment for his sins to have to marry
me! Would n't I serve him out, though!”

With which threat of vengeance on her mind Sally Kittridge
fell asleep, while Mara lay awake pondering, — wondering

if Moses would come to-morrow, and what he would
be like if he did come.

The next morning, as the two girls were wiping breakfast
dishes in a room adjoining the kitchen, a step was heard on
the kitchen-floor, and the first that Mara knew she found
herself lifted from the floor in the arms of a tall dark-eyed
young man, who was kissing her just as if he had a right to.
She knew it must be Moses, but it seemed strange as a
dream, for all she had tried to imagine it beforehand.

Her kissed her over and over, and then holding her off at
arm's length, said, “Why, Mara, you have grown to be a
beauty!”

“And what was she, I 'd like to know, when you went
away, Mr. Moses?” said Sally, who could not long keep out
of a conversation. “She was handsome when you were
only a great ugly boy.”

“Thank you, Miss Sally!” said Moses, making a profound
bow.

“Thank me for what?” said Sally, with a toss.

“For your intimation that I am a handsome young man
now,” said Moses, sitting with his arm around Mara, and her
hand in his.

And in truth he was as handsome now for a man as he
was in the promise of his early childhood.

All the oafishness and surly awkwardness of the half-boy
period was gone. His great black eyes were clear and confident:
his dark hair clustering in short curls round his well-shaped
head; his black lashes, and fine form, and a certain
confident ease of manner, set him off to the greatest advantage.

Mara felt a peculiar dreamy sense of strangeness at this
brother who was not a brother, — this Moses so different

from the one she had known. The very tone of his voice,
which when he left had the uncertain cracked notes which
indicate the unformed man, were now mellowed and settled.

Mara regarded him shyly as he talked, blushed uneasily,
and drew away from his arm around her, as if this handsome,
self-confident young man were being too familiar. In
fact, she made apology to go out into the other room to call
Mrs. Pennel.

Moses looked after her as she went with admiration.

“What a little woman she has grown!” he said, naively.

“And what did you expect she would grow?” said Sally.
“You did n't expect to find her a girl in short clothes, did
you?”

“Not exactly, Miss Sally,” said Moses, turning his attention
to her; “and some other people are changed too.”

“Like enough,” said Sally, carelessly. “I should think
so, since somebody never spoke a word to one the Sunday
he was at meeting.”

“Oh, you remember that, do you? On my word, Sally”
—

“Miss Kittridge, if you please, sir,” said Sally, turning
round with the air of an empress.

“Well, then, Miss Kittridge,” said Moses, making a bow;
“now let me finish my sentence. I never dreamed who you
were.”

“Complimentary,” said Sally, pouting.

“Well, hear me through,” said Moses; “you had grown
so handsome, Miss Kittridge.”

“Oh! that indeed! I suppose you mean to say I was a
fright when you left?”

“Not at all — not at all,” said Moses; “but handsome
things may grow handsomer, you know.”

“I don't like flattery,” said Sally.

“I never flatter, Miss Kittridge,” said Moses.

Our young gentleman and young lady of Orr's Island
went through with this customary little lie of civilized society
with as much gravity as if they were practising in the
court of Versailles, — she looking out from the corner of
her eye to watch the effect of her words, and he laying his
hand on his heart in the most edifying gravity. They perfectly
understood one another.

But, says the reader, seems to me Sally Kittridge does
all the talking! So she does, — so she always will, — for it
is her nature to be bright, noisy, and restless; and one of
these girls always overcrows a timid and thoughtful one,
and makes her, for the time, seem dim and faded, as does
rose color when put beside scarlet.

Sally was a born coquette. It was as natural for her to
want to flirt with every man she saw, as for a kitten to
scamper after a pin-ball. Does the kitten care a fig for the
pin-ball, or the dry leaves, which she whisks, and frisks, and
boxes, and pats, and races round and round after? No; it 's
nothing but kittenhood; every hair of her fur is alive with
it. Her sleepy green eyes, when she pretends to be dozing,
are full of it; and though she looks wise a moment, and
seems resolved to be a discreet young cat, let but a leaf
sway — off she goes again, with a frisk and a rap. So,
though Sally had scolded and flounced about Moses' inattention
to Mara in advance, she contrived even in this first
interview to keep him talking with nobody but herself; —
not because she wanted to draw him from Mara, or meant
to; not because she cared a pin for him; but because it
was her nature as a frisky young cat.

And Moses let himself be drawn, between bantering and

contradicting, and jest and earnest, at some moments almost
to forget that Mara was in the room.

She took her sewing and sat with a pleased smile, sometimes
breaking into the lively flow of conversation, or
eagerly appealed to by both parties to settle some rising
quarrel.

Once, as they were talking, Moses looked up and saw
Mara's head, as a stray sunbeam falling upon the golden hair
seemed to make a halo around her face.

Her large eyes were fixed upon him with an expression
so intense and penetrative, that he felt a sort of wincing uneasiness.

“What makes you look at me so, Mara?” he said, suddenly.

A bright flush came in her cheek as she answered, “I
did n't know I was looking. It all seems so strange to me.
I am trying to make out who and what you are.”

“It 's not best to look too deep,” Moses said, laughing,
but with a slight shade of uneasiness.

When Sally, late in the afternoon, declared that she must
go home, she could n't stay another minute, Moses rose to go
with her.

“What are you getting up for?” she said to Moses, as he
took his hat.

“To go home with you, to be sure.”

“Nobody asked you to,” said Sally.

“I 'm accustomed to asking myself,” said Moses.

“Well, I suppose I must have you along,” said Sally.
“Father will be glad to see you, of course.”

“You 'll be back to tea, Moses,” said Mara, “will
you not? Grandfather will be home, and want to see
you.”

“Oh, I shall be right back,” said Moses, “I have a little
business to settle with Captain Kittridge.”

But Moses, however, did stay at tea with Mrs. Kittridge,
who looked graciously at him through the bows of her black
horn spectacles, having heard her liege lord observe that
Moses was a smart chap, and had done pretty well in a
money way.

How came he to stay? Sally told him every other minute
to go; and then when he had got fairly out of the door,
called him back to tell him that there was something she had
heard about him.

And Moses of course came back; wanted to know what it
was; and could n't be told, it was a secret; and then he
would be ordered off, and reminded that he promised to go
straight home; and then when he got a little farther off she
called after him a second time, to tell him that he would be
very much surprised if he knew how she found it out, etc.,
etc., — till at last tea being ready, there was no reason why
he should n't have a cup. And so it was sober moonrise
before Moses found himself going home.

“Hang that girl!” he said to himself; “don't she know
what she 's about, though?”

There our hero was mistaken. Sally never did know
what she was about, — had no plan or purpose more than a
blackbird; and when Moses was gone laughed to think how
many times she had made him come back.

“Now, confound it all,” said Moses, “I care more for our
little Mara than a dozen of her; and what have I been fooling
all this time for? — now Mara will think I don't love
her.”

And, in fact, our young gentleman rather set his heart on
the sensation he was going to make when he got home.

It is flattering, after all, to feel one's power over a susceptible
nature; and Moses, remembering how entirely and
devotedly Mara had loved him all through childhood, never
doubted but he was the sole possessor of uncounted treasure
in her heart, which he could develop at his leisure and use
as he pleased.

He did not calculate for one force which had grown up in
the mean while between them, — and that was the power of
womanhood. He did not know the intensity of that kind
of pride, which is the very life of the female nature, and
which is most vivid and vigorous in the most timid and
retiring.

Our little Mara was tender, self-devoting, humble, and
religious, but she was woman after all to the tips of her
fingers, — quick to feel slights, and determined, with the
intensest determination, that no man should wrest from her
one of those few humble rights and privileges, which Nature
allows to woman.

Something swelled and trembled in her when she felt the
confident pressure of that bold arm around her waist, — like
the instinct of a wild bird to fly. Something in the deep,
manly voice, the determined, self-confident air, aroused a
vague feeling of defiance and resistance in her which she
could scarcely explain to herself. Was he to assume a right
to her in this way without even asking? When he did not
come to tea nor long after, and Mrs. Pennel and her grandfather
wondered, she laughed, and said gayly, —

“Oh, he knows he 'll have time enough to see me. Sally
seems more like a stranger.”

But when Moses came home after moonrise, determined
to go and console Mara for his absence, he was surprised to
hear the sound of a rapid and pleasant conversation, in

which a masculine and feminine voice were intermingled in
a lively duet.

Coming a little nearer, he saw Mara sitting knitting in
the door-way, and a very good-looking young man seated on
a stone at her feet, with his straw hat flung on the ground,
while he was looking up into her face, as young men often
do into pretty faces seen by moonlight. Mara rose and introduced
Mr. Adams of Boston to Mr. Moses Pennel.

Moses measured the young man with his eye as if he
could have shot him with a good will. And his temper was
not at all bettered as he observed that he had the easy air of
a man of fashion and culture, and learned by a few moments
of the succeeding conversation, that the acquaintance had
commenced during Mara's winter visit to Boston.

“I was staying a day or two at Mr. Sewell's,” he said,
carelessly, “and the night was so fine I could n't resist the
temptation to row over.”

It was now Moses' turn to listen to a conversation in
which he could bear little part, it being about persons and
places and things unfamiliar to him; and though he could
give no earthly reason why the conversation was not the
most proper in the world, — yet he found that it made him
angry.

In the pauses, Mara inquired, prettily, how he found the
Kittridges, and reproved him playfully for staying, in despite
of his promise to come home.

Moses answered with an effort to appear easy and playful,
that there was no reason, it appeared, to hurry on her account,
since she had been so pleasantly engaged.

“That is true,” said Mara, quietly; “but then grandpapa
and grandmamma expected you, and they have gone to bed,
as you know they always do after tea.”

“They 'll keep till morning, I suppose,” said Moses, rather
gruffly.

“Oh yes; but then as you had been gone two or three
months, naturally they wanted to see a little of you at
first.”

The stranger now joined in the conversation, and began
talking with Moses about his experiences in foreign parts,
in a manner which showed a man of sense and breeding.
Moses had a jealous fear of people of breeding, — an apprehension
lest they should look down on one whose life had
been laid out of the course of their conventional ideas; and
therefore, though he had sufficient ability and vigor of mind
to acquit himself to advantage in this conversation, it gave
him all the while a secret uneasiness.

After a few moments, he rose up moodily, and saying that
he was very much fatigued, he went into the house to retire.

Mr. Adams rose to go also, and Moses might have felt in
a more Christian frame of mind, had he listened to the last
words of the conversation between him and Mara.

“Do you remain long in Harpswell?” she asked.

“That depends on circumstances,” he replied. “If I do,
may I be permitted to visit you?”

“As a friend — yes,” said Mara; “I shall always be
happy to see you.”

“No more?”

“No more,” replied Mara.

“I had hoped,” he said, “that you would reconsider.”

“It is impossible,” said she; and soft voices can pronounce
that word, impossible, in a very fateful and decisive
manner.

“Well, God bless you, then, Miss Lincoln,” he said, and
was gone.

Mara stood in the door-way and saw him loosen his boat
from its moorings and float off in the moonlight, with a long
train of silver sparkles behind.

A moment after Moses was looking gloomily over her
shoulder.

“Who is that puppy?” he said.

“He is not a puppy, but a very fine young man,” said
Mara.

“Well, that very fine young man, then?”

“I thought I told you. He is a Mr. Adams of Boston,
and a distant connection of the Sewells'. I met him when
I was visiting at Judge Sewell's in Boston.”

“You seemed to be having a very pleasant time together?”

“We were,” said Mara, quietly.

“It 's a pity I came home as I did. I 'm sorry I interrupted
you,” said Moses, with a sarcastic laugh.

“You did n't interrupt us; he had been here almost two
hours.”

Now Mara saw plainly enough that Moses was displeased
and hurt, and had it been in the days of her fourteenth summer,
she would have thrown her arms around his neck, and
said, “Moses, I don't care a fig for that man, and I love
you better than all the world.” But this the young lady of
seventeen would not do; so she wished him good-night very
prettily, and pretended not to see anything about it.

Mara was as near being a saint as human dust ever is;
but — she was a woman saint; and therefore may be excused
for a little gentle vindictiveness. She was, in a merciful
way, rather glad that Moses had gone to bed dissatisfied,
and rather glad that he did not know what she might have
told him — quite resolved that he should not know at present.

Was he to know that she liked nobody so much as
him? Not he, unless he loved her more than all the world,
and said so first.

Mara was resolved upon that. He might go where he
liked — flirt with whom he liked — come back as late as he
pleased — never would she, by word or look, give him reason
to think she cared.